


A Beginning

by Rhianona



Series: Comfort [3]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), Highlander: The Series
Genre: AU, Gen, Historical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 21:56:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2363504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhianona/pseuds/Rhianona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Methos relates to Rose and Jack the first time he met the Doctor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Beginning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KerrAvonsen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KerrAvonsen/gifts).



> Written over three years ago but never posted due to real life issues as a gift for Kerravonsen for her winning bid in the help_japan charity auction. With much apologies for the delay in posting.

“The first time I met you, you wore this face,” Methos commented. Jack and Rose looked at them with confusion on their face and the Doctor inwardly frowned because it wasn’t true; they’d met before he had survived the Time War, more than once in fact, and it saddened him that his friend didn’t remember the earlier meetings. Maybe he could do something about that, one day. He shook his head and shot a glare towards the Immortal. 

“Oi! Why’d you go and say that for?” 

(He should have known Methos would make such a comment, knowing as he did how much the Doctor hated explaining regeneration to his Companions. They never seemed to understand it or take it well so he tended to just avoid it until he couldn’t. Maybe he’d just give in and make a presentation as had been suggested in the past.)

Methos smirked but then had the kindness to explain that pesky bit of business for him and while Jack merely quirked an eyebrow, Rose looked troubled. “But you’re the same person, yeah?” she asked. 

“Different face, different personality, but I’m still me!” he assured her. Never mind that he often boxed away his previous lives rather than have them clamoring within his mind. He honestly did not know how Methos survived with all those lives rattling around in his head. It would drive him round the bend was it him. 

His assurance seemed to satisfy her.

He glanced at his friend and noted that he still looked devastated, no matter the false cheer he put on his face for the youngsters. His Companions didn’t know the difference since they had just met him, but he did. 

The Doctor didn’t blame Methos; just as the Immortal had comforted him in the aftermath of the Time War, now he offered shelter from the trauma of manipulating the events to kill the three Immortals Methos had called ‘brother.’ 

“When’d you first meet the Doctor?” Rose asked. She fairly vibrated with curiosity. It was a nice change from the awkward hurt she had striven to hide when first introduced to Methos. Apparently, discovering that she was not the first person to travel with the Doctor had surprised her. But now, several hours later with Methos doing his best to charm his Companions, she seemed over it. 

“Oh, gods… it must have been where?” Methos asked. For the first time since he had arrived on the TARDIS, broken from his actions against his brothers, he looked interested in life. It gave the Doctor hope that his friend would recover in time instead of shutting himself down and ignoring the world for a few decades. It was always a pain when he did that.

“Aratta,” Methos finally remembered. 

“Bless you,” Rose said. 

Methos actually chuckled and the Doctor hid his own smirk. “Aratta was a city-state in Sumeria,” the Immortal explained, his voice taking a sort of lilt. “Conquered by Enmerkar, son of Meskiaggasher, who founded Erech in the land of Kish.” 

“I don’t understand,” Jack said. He folded his arms across his chest and furrowed his brow in a cute way. Not that the Doctor would ever tell the cocky former Time Agent that — he did not need to inflate the man’s considerable ego more than it already was. “Are you a Time Agent?”

“No,” Methos said. 

“Then how could you have been in Sumeria? That was what, thousands of years ago from now!” Jack pointed out. 

“I’ve lived a long time,” Methos said. His lips twisted into a familiar quirk of a smile. The Doctor recognized shades of a darker Methos, the one he had seen that time in Hamburg. (Not that it had been Hamburg at the time.)

“Are you an alien?” Rose asked, her eyes wide with wonder. 

“Not that I know,” Methos said, sinking even deeper into his chair. 

The Doctor cleared his throat, not wanting things to degenerate further. “Aratta was one of my less than brilliant ideas.”

Methos snorted. “You did save me, so that was something,” he pointed out. 

“You would have kept your head,” the Doctor argued.

“If you say so,” Methos shrugged. 

“But, what happened?” Rose asked, her brow furrowed with confusion. 

“Our dear friend here came to Aratta as we prepared for war with Enmerkar,” Methos said. “He caused quite the stir, in fact.”

“Oi! I did no such thing,” the Doctor protested. “Things just…” he trailed off. 

“Spiraled out of control?” Methos suggested, arching an eyebrow. 

The Doctor humphed and folded his arms across his chest. “You could have helped more,” he sulked. 

Methos smiled. A small one, but genuine nonetheless. 

“Now, this I need to hear!” Jack said, rubbing his hands with enthusiasm. The Doctor hid another smirk; the former Time Agent was nothing if not predictable. 

“Adam?” the Doctor asked. He rather thought that relating the story would be beneficial for his friend. 

“Fine,” Methos grumbled, “but I’ll need another beer.”

“Of course,” the Doctor said. 

Rose and Jack leaned forward with interest as Methos took a sip from the bottle Rose had given him before starting. 

“I was a priest and belonged to Inanna. Aratta was her city. Our friend here,” he said, nodding towards the Doctor, “appeared in one of the temples mere weeks before Enmerkar marched to war with his armies.”

“Oi! That was one of my finer moments!” the Doctor protested to the amusement of Jack and Rose. 

His lips twitched with amusement and he settled back to continue.

***

_  
Circa 2750 BCE   
_

Methos, who currently went by Hadad, had, much to his surprise, enjoyed living in Aratta. The idea of hundreds of people gathered together in one area, of something more permanent than a tent of skins, had seemed odd to him when first he had heard of such a thing. He could understand the appeal, of course; the large groupings and permanent structures provided more protection against mobile raiding parties than the hide tents in which he had grown up. Raiding parties did band together to attack the fortified structures, so life was not wholly safe, but it did afford him a greater opportunity to hide from his own kind.

He had first lived in Kish but had moved to Erech to avoid Cassandra. She still hadn’t forgiven him for what he did to her. 

(He wasn’t sure he deserved her forgiveness.)

From Erech, he’d been brought to Aratta as a slave; he belonged to Inanna and she had taken him as a priest. He rather enjoyed his position, knowing full well that priests were only below the king in stature. Inanna had claim to all the residents of Aratta and they all lived and died in her name. 

Inanna was not the first goddess he’d worshipped. She wasn’t even the first one to whom he belonged. Gods and goddesses flitted through his life, changing with each passing decade. He could still remember the prayers that fell from his lips a thousand years ago, praising the Sun and asking for Mother’s blessing for a good hunt. The names might change, but he’d lived long enough to realize that little else did. 

After all, he and his brothers had proclaimed themselves gods and for many they were.

***

“Have you finished the copies yet, Hadad?” Anath asked. Methos liked Anath; he was a middle-aged man, his hair just going grey and looked well-lived. He had a small paunch that came from city-living and had clearly never held a sword in his life. He also had one of the sharpest minds Methos had ever had the pleasure of debating and it did not surprise him that Anath had risen to the post of Head Scribe within the temple in only a few short years. He ruled his domain with a single-mindedness that reminded him of an elder in a tribe he had once called his own.

It also wouldn’t surprise him did Anath know of Methos’ immortality, for all that they never spoke of it. There was something in the way the other looked at him at times that made him think Anath knew far more about the mysteries of life than he claimed. Perhaps Inanna spoke to him, whispering the secrets of the world to him, knowing he would not betray the confidences she gave to him to keep.

“Yes, Anath-sah. I have just finished the last of the copies. They are ready for distribution,” Methos said and dipped his head in subservience. He respected Anath far more than he had anyone else in years.

“Good, good,” Anath said. He sighed as he read over the latest court reports.

“Anath-sah?” Methos ventured to ask.

“It is nothing, Hadad. I am certain I am but paranoid,” he dismissed his concerns with a wave of a hand. Narrowing his eyes, Methos caught the glimmer of worry that lingered on Anath’s face. His heart sank.

“It is true, then,” he whispered and bent his head.

Anath eyebrow rose and he hurried to answer the unspoken question.

“War will march on Aratta,” he said. “Our lady will choose to forsake us.” He whispered the last, not wanting to incite panic if someone other than Anath heard his words.

Anath smiled and shook his head. “I should have known you would read the same signs as I,” he said. He sobered rather quickly and captured Methos’ eyes. “You cannot say anything.”

“I know,” Methos said and he did. Did word reach the public that Inanna would soon forsake Aratta and her Lord for someone new, widespread panic would ensue and many innocents would be hurt.

“Besides young Hadad, we could be wrong. Inanna may still choose to favor us.”

Method didn’t respond. He knew the signs of war (and for a moment he wondered if War would ride to Aratta to regain Death by his side before he firmly slammed the door on those thoughts) and it was coming.

***

On a normal day, the bright blue box might have sat unnoticed in the Temple’s gardens. It was not, however, a normal day and Methos barely refrained from calling the guards when he saw it. There was something about it that tickled at his memory, though where – and when – he had seen such a vibrant and peculiar shade of blue he had no true idea.

Well, he could guess it was from Before. Before Death and his fellow Horsemen. Before his crazed desire for revenge took over his life and he and his brothers raged across the plains killing and taking what they would.

He couldn’t remember and while that might have once sent him into a rage, he did his best to ignore it and focused on what he did know. There was a blue box in the garden. It hadn’t been there earlier in the day, when he had slipped away from his cubicle for a breath of fresh air. It looked like nothing he had ever seen before and it emanated a strange energy. Not like the Quickening, but something… something different and alien and _wonderful_.

It drew him to it. Almost without realizing it, his hand lifted to caress the wood. He started at the feeling of warmth.

“She’s always liked you, Methos,” a strange male voice said to him. It should have startled him but somehow, Methos had known to expect him. 

“Are you a god?” Methos asked. He watched with faint curiosity at the double-take the man took and how he almost backpedaled away.

“No, no,” he said. “Definitely not.” He grimaced and a flash of pain/sorrow/guilt came and went across his face. It intrigued Methos, as did the continued sense of familiarity. He could almost taste it for all that he could not remember why or how he knew the man-god. 

“You do not look like any man I have seen,” Methos pointed out. His eyes took in the strange garb the other wore: some sort of dark leggings, a dark tunic – though the tunic was far too short to be properly called such – and a covering that seemed useless as armor. None of the material even looked like the cloth he had seen in any of his lives. And yet…

“Sure you have. You just don’t remember it,” he said and grinned.

“Why are you here?” Methos asked, redirecting the conversation.

He shrugged. “Seemed like a good place to make a stop. Besides, my girl’s the one that chose.” He patted his box with fondness. 

“Your… girl?” Methos asked.

A giant grin transformed the man’s face. “My TARDIS. Best of the best, she is.”

If Methos hadn’t been observing him so carefully, he would have missed the second echo of pain/sorrow/guilt that flashed in his eyes; a traumatic event then, something that haunted him but not something that had just occurred. “So you are not a god,” Methos drawled, “and you are merely a visitor to Aratta. You have certainly chosen an apt time.”

“I’m the Doctor, by the way,” he said and thrust out a hand. Methos frowned in confusion before following suit, lifting an eyebrow in surprise when the man grasped it in his and shook it. “Oops. Sorry, forgot you folks don’t do that yet.”

“Yet?” What an odd man!

The Doctor ignored his question and turned his attention to their surroundings. “This is fabulous!” he said and gestured towards the gardens. “You know, the gardens in Sumer are legendary. Though, this doesn’t have a thing on the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. Now _those_ are some gardens.”

Methos blinked. Babylon? Where in Inanna’s name was that? He rolled the name around in his mind, feeling the way the word was spoken, the almost lyrical quality to it.

Before he could say anything else, the temple guards arrived, having been called at the behest of a young acolyte that was frightened by the Doctor’s sudden appearance.

“You will come with us,” Yam stated. He and his fellows surrounded the Doctor and Methos gracefully – if a bit regretful – stepped back.

“No need to get snippy,” the Doctor protested, raising his hands with a big grin. “We can talk this out.”

Stoic silence met his comment, though it did not appear to dampen his spirits. He smiled widely as Yam and his fellows escorted him away. 

Methos shook his head in wonderment. He was still not convinced the other wasn’t a god, despite his protestations. The Doctor knew his name. No one in Aratta knew him as Methos. He had left it behind when he had left his brothers. Perhaps the sense of familiarity he had came from having met the other before he had left his brothers? But then, if he had met Methos when he still rode with his brothers, he should not have survived to remember his name. 

It confused him. He nodded politely to the guards who arrived to surround the strange blue box. Yam was clearly not taking any chances, not that he could blame him with the heightened tensions within the city.

***

“They are marching,” Anath said.

“And no word from Inanna,” Methos confirmed. He exchanged a grim look with the head scribe.

Anath sighed. “Then it is true. She has forsaken the Lord for Enmerkar.”

“Or our Lord has forsaken her,” Methos pointed out. “Who knows the will of the goddess?”

“True, true,” Anath looked thoughtful. “Well, there is not much we can do about it. We are not warriors.” He raised an eyebrow at his subordinate and his eyes glinted with amusement.

Methos gave him an enigmatic smile and refused to rise to the bait. It seemed his suspicions that Anath was aware of what he was were not unfounded. He did take a moment to wonder whether he also knew who he truly was.

***

The benefit of being a court scribe – the one preferred by the Lord – was that Methos heard important information before the everyone else.

Enmerkar had asked the Lord to give to Urek stones from the mountains, to craft precious metals and stone, to give _kugmea_ stone so that he might build a temple to Inanna. He claimed Inanna favored him, that Aratta must submit to Urek and Enmerkar as he had done to the goddess.

The Lord, however, refused and still insisted Inanna would protect her city, that she would not allow her people to submit. His assertions didn’t counter the rumors that whispered of Her abandonment. The people were frightened but no one had yet stepped forth to provide leadership. No champion had arisen, blessed by Inanna or any other god to save the city from Enmerkar’s advance.

For the first time in a long while, Methos felt dread. His immortality would seem like the sign for which the city awaited. Nothing good would come if he found himself forced to play the role of savior. He prayed that his secret would remain hidden until the city fell. He belonged to Inanna, one of her priests so even should Enmerkar claimed Aratta for his, a priest he would remain. A warrior would be put to the sword for fear of retribution, but a scribe? No scribe would be considered a threat.

Already the people of Aratta had taken to fleeing, heading towards other settlements in the hopes of avoiding the death and destruction Enmerkar would bring. The Lord could not stop them from leaving though he ordered his troops to prevent such desertion. They, however, had more important matters to which to attend and turned a blind eye to the civilians who slipped away in the dead of night.

He sometimes wondered if he too should perhaps leave but as of yet, he had not heard a compelling reason to leave. He would stay then, at least until it no longer behooved him to do so. Besides, he had still to solve the mystery of the Doctor and his blue box… his TARDIS.

***

The strange man remained imprisoned; guards interrogated him, trying to determine just why he had come to Aratta and all he did was smile and talk in circles. There was a dark edge to the man and more than Methos had sensed that, which explained why he remained a guest of the guards rather than with the Lord.

And yet, for all that sense of danger that lingered around the man, the interrogation remained quite benign. No one knew who he was but his very strangeness seemed supernatural and none wanted to offend a god. From what Methos read and overheard, Yam had orders from the Lord to ensure that the Doctor, while remaining imprisoned, did not suffer or want for anything. 

The Doctor fascinated Methos and he felt a pull towards him that he couldn’t explain, not even to himself. To seek him out was out of character for Hadad but the man once known as Death easily slipped to where the Doctor was being held not even a week after his incarceration. He went at the darkest hour to discover just what type of hold the Doctor held over him. Was it witchcraft? Had he worked some sort of spell when they first met in the gardens? If he had, Methos was impressed; only the truly powerful could work magic in such a short amount of time as they had interacted with each other.

“It took you longer than I thought it would,” the Doctor told him.

“Pardon?” Methos asked, astonishment coloring his voice.

The Doctor chuckled. “I figured you’d be down here yesterday!”

“Why did you think that?”

“I know how curious you are,” he said. He had his arms folded across his chest and for all that he’d been a prisoner, he did not look too worse for wear.

“Have we met then?” Methos asked. His heart pounded with a mixture of fear and hope. Hope that the Doctor could provide to him answers to questions he had long since consigned to remaining unanswered. But also fear, because knowing the truth of his past could force onto him a burden worse than being Death. 

A series of emotions chased across the Doctor’s face. “Nah…” he finally said. “Just know people.”

“Oh,” Methos said and he tried not to let the disappointment he felt overshadow his voice. The man-god did not give him the answers he had hoped he would. The years before he had become Death would remain as dark and dim as they did now.

“So, you going to help me out of here?”

Methos shrugged. “You won’t get far, not dressed as you are.” A quick change of topic, a move he felt comfortable following. 

“Eh. I’ll be fine,” the Doctor said.

“You are foolish,” Methos said. “You have come to Aratta just as war is come. Why do you not fear for your life? Are you that favored by the gods? Or are you a god yourself?” He could not help but interrogate him. He unsettled him, made him yearn for something that he could not explain. And he did not like it when he did not know what to expect. He had survived as long as he had by planning ahead. Somehow, he knew that the man-god before him would put paid to any and all schemes he might make.

Gods were tricky beings; they had an arrogance that man barely touched, conceit from their powers and abilities. They favored some but that support could vanish just as quickly as it was granted. For an example, he had only to look to Aratta: the Lord had been Inanna’s favorite for many a year, but it seemed as if he had offended her in some manner as she did not answer any of the prayers of the priests or her people.

“I’m just the Doctor, not a god,” the Doctor insisted.

“Of course,” Methos said, careful to not let any of the disbelief he felt enter his voice. It just did not make sense to him for the Doctor to know what he did, to act as he did without being a god. But, if, for some strange reason only known to him, he did not wish to be known as such, well… Methos would follow his lead. 

“Are you planning on leaving?” he asked, once again changing the topic.

“Why would I?” Methos countered. 

The Doctor shrugged and leaned back against in front of which he stood. “Aren’t you afraid of Death?”

Methos shivered, hearing the dual meanings in his words. The Doctor scared him. No one here knew of his past as Death and yet he just implied he did. “And you say you are no god,” he commented, bitterness coating his words as he pushed away from the cage and turned to leave.

“Wait! Methos,” the Doctor began only to fall quiet as Methos leveled a glare worthy of a thousand suns on him.

“My name,” he said, each word clipped with anger, “is Hadad.” He stalked away, feeling unsatisfied and angry.

***

News of the Doctor’s escape came the next morning. The guards insisted he’d been there one moment and gone the next. Though Yam and his guards had tried to keep his presence a secret, it had proven difficult to do so. Gossip had swirled through Aratta almost as soon as Yam had escorted him to the dungeons. And now, rumors abounded that he truly had been a god – an angry one since he hadn’t been received as his due. Perhaps, they whispered, perhaps Inanna had sent him down to see if they were worth saving. That they honored her and her ways.

“Inanna has forsaken us,” the people cried and flocked to the temple in the hopes that their prayers might bring salvation to Aratta. Drought and famine (but not Famine) rode hard on the demands of Enmerkar and it truly seemed that Enmerkar had not exaggerated Inanna’s support of him.

Somehow, the Doctor’s escape did not surprise Methos, though he did not speak of it aloud. No reason to call attention to himself - bad enough he had been present when Yam had apprehended the Doctor the first time. Whilst the strange man (or god) claimed to know him (and it sent shivers down his spine to hear that) and while the Immortal could not recall ever meeting him, there was something about the stranger that meant he did not underestimate him. He had no desire to die – and somehow, he suspected the Doctor knew just how to make that death permanent. 

Methos spent most of his day recording the supplies to be stockpiled for the upcoming war. Not that they had many. It had not rained for too many moons and the harvest had been slim. From long experience, he knew that even if Inanna did not dance, Aratta would face hardship with the famine that was all but assured to come. Perhaps the Lord should have agreed to Enmarker’s demands, perhaps then Inanna would have allowed no further suffering.

He did not believe it would make a difference when the Lord instructed the priests to pray to Ishkur, to see if He would interfere in Inanna’s city and save them. How could it? Aratta’s fate seemed set. He bent his head to his tasks and merely hoped to continue to abide in the city without losing his head.

***

He found the Doctor – or the other found him – in his quarters. Methos closed his eyes, frustrated, and ignored the frisson of excitement the sight of the other gave to him. “You’ve found me, then,” he stated. “Are you here to guide me to Kur?”

The Doctor frowned. “You’re awfully eager to give up and die,” he commented. “Not at all like you.”

Methos raised an eyebrow in silent inquiry. The more time he spent with the strange man, the more he was convinced he had some sort of supernatural powers. What that might be, he did not know. It bothered him not to know. Danger and a world-wariness (and weariness) shadowed him. 

“It’s not your time to die,” the Doctor told him. He said it in an offhand manner, as if it had little or no importance. “You should come with me.” Did he know something Methos did not? Was he fated to die did he remain?

“Are you sure you’re not a god?” Methos asked. He leveled a harsh gaze at his unwanted guest. “You seem to know who I am when I know I have never had the pleasure of your acquaintance before. You want me to leave Aratta when we are preparing for war. How do you propose we do that? By taking a simple walk out of the gates? The guards no longer turn a blind eye to those who wish to depart.”

The Doctor tilted his head and stared at Methos. He strove not to shift under his gaze, the steely-eyed glint that purported to _know_ him in a way none had ever had before. “Would you leave if you could?”

Methos paused, not knowing how to reply. He liked his life here and to leave would force him to begin anew. While that was not always a bad thing, he preferred to start a new life at his own behest and not another’s. 

“Can you save the city?” he asked, curious despite himself. He had sworn to not ask such a question but it tumbled out before he could stop it. He did not even know why he cared, save for his own selfish reasons. 

The Doctor tilted his head and pursed his lips. “Well, yes,” he said and then waved his hands about. “Maybe. Well…” he looked sheepish. “I could, but I can’t.” 

He frowned in response. “Inanna has traded her favor to Enmerkar then,” he said. He sighed and wandered deeper into his rooms, his hand trailing over the furniture. “Perhaps it is time I leave,” he continued to himself. 

“You could come with me,” the Doctor offered, persuasion in his voice. “We just have to find the TARDIS and then we can be out of here.”

“The… TARDIS,” Methos carefully rolled the strange word around his tongue. Such an interesting sound it made! “It can get us away?”

“ _She_ ,” the Doctor said, “certainly can.”

“That is all well and good, Doctor, but there remains one problem,” Methos said. “The TARDIS is under guard and has been taken to the temple.”

“We’ll just have to go and get here then. Come now, Methos, where’s your sense of adventure?” the Doctor asked and grinned. As if there was no doubt that he’d go with him. And to his surprise, Methos found himself trailing after the other.

He felt a chill run down his spine, but agreed to help. Curiosity and a desire to see just what this TARDIS could do, prevented him from calling on one of the city’s guards to take the Doctor into custody. He just prayed that he would not regret any of this even as he accepted he would.

“You should stay here,” he said. “Where it’s safe.”

“Ah, no need to worry,” the Doctor said. “We just need to get to the temple and everything’ll be right as rain.”

“I know your TARDIS was brought to the temple, but I don’t know which one or where it would be stored,” Methos argued. “Let me discover where it is rather than tromp through the city looking for it.” 

“Maybe you have a point,” the Doctor finally conceded.

“You’ll be safe here,” Methos reiterated. “No one else lives here, so no one else should enter.” The Doctor nodded and sat down, smiling brilliantly. Methos hesitated a moment, unsure of his compliance. “I have to go. My presence will be missed if I am much later. I’ll see what I can find out.”

“Off you go then!” the Doctor grinned. “I’ll stay here, like a good little boy.”

Methos left and wondered just what he’d gotten himself into.

(He knew that the Doctor would not remain there long, though he hoped for his own sake, that he would. Given the tension that plagued the city, any hint of disloyalty would send him to the tender mercies of Yam and his men. He had no desire to enjoy the other’s hospitality, not at this juncture, not when those who protected the city sought enemies from within and saw conspirators in every shadow.)

Fortunately, Anath did not seem put out by how distracted Methos acted through most of the day. Most of the city population had the same air of confusion; the Lord insisted Inanna still protected Aratta, but the extensive drought and continued losses by the city champions put paid to that idea. A growing percentage of the population called for surrender to Enmerkar before ruin fully came to the city. The cynic in Methos knew the Lord would never bow his head in defeat; his ego would not allow him. The people would suffer — continue to suffer, really — because of greed: Enmerkar’s lust for the resources Aratta held and the Lord’s determination to hold onto his position as Inanna’s most favored.

The more he considered it, he realized that the Doctor’s offer to take him elsewhere — if it were true — could really only prove beneficial to him. At least, that was what he told himself as he listened with a careful ear for any hint of where the Doctor’s blue box had been taken. Leaving Aratta sounded better and better with each passing day, but to inquire of its location would only draw suspicion on him — and he tried to avoid that at all costs.

He didn’t like to admit it but he had grown a bit bored with his life in Aratta. Oh, he didn’t mind belonging to Inanna or his work as a scribe. Nor did he find Anath overbearing or troublesome. He liked knowing what was going on around him and the security that inhabiting a place like Aratta gave him. No one expected anything of him except to show up on time for court and preserve the records. Inanna did not demand much from him either, which made belonging to her quite a pleasure as opposed to some of the other gods to whom he had belonged in the past. Nothing he did, however, stretched his abilities or made him feel _alive_. He somehow knew that leaving with the Doctor would.

***

In the end, he discovered the location of the Doctor’s TARDIS as Yam and his guards dragged him from Inanna’s temple to the dungeons for ‘questioning.’ He caught a glimpse of it out of the corner of his eye before Yam sent a blow to his head hard enough for him to lose consciousness. Apparently, someone had seen the Doctor leaving his quarters. Methos wanted to be surprised, wanted to hate the other for his actions but was resigned to the fact that the Doctor would not abide by anyone’s instructions. He didn’t know why he knew that, but somehow, he did. Instead, he concentrated on withstanding the interrogation Yam and his fellows gave him.

(It was painful, but then he expected nothing less. Man was man after all and the city stood on the precipice of war; the Doctor’s appearance and subsequent disappearance sowed confusion. His strange garb and manner of talk set him apart but also suggested he belonged to the pantheon of gods. Methos did not have that protection; the people of Aratta knew him to be a priest scribe of Inanna. Interrogating him in place of the Doctor solved the apprehension held by the more superstitious because they knew he was not a god and they could obtain their answers without fear of offending the gods. 

He tried to suppress his quickening and succeeded for a while. More worryingly, he could feel the sharper, more savage aspects of his personality emerging. Death began to rise and he panicked, not wanting to revisit the destruction he had rained down on the mortals but fearing soon he would not have the strength of will not to do so. Death would ride and find his War, and his Pestilence, and his Famine and together they Four would remind the world of their fury and rule.)

At some point, Yam left him alone (to consult) and he healed. (The guards grew frightened [envious] at further evidence of the Gods’ favors.) Methos no longer knew how long he’d been interrogated (tortured) and didn’t particularly care. He rued the day he had met the Doctor (where _was_ he?) and agreed to help him escape, all for the passage out of this cesspit of a city. He berated himself for not having the patience to wait all of the posturing out. He should have just waited for Enmerkar to take the city (it was only a matter of time) and then he could have slipped away, with no one the wiser. But instead of that, he had let his curiosity come to play and now, he could only hope that Inanna truly favored him and he would escape from this prison without losing his head.

***

Hours later (days?), Yam dragged him to the Lord and shoved him to his face before him. “You are certain he is blessed?” the Lord asked.

In answer, Yam stabbed him and Methos could do no more than gasp as blood flooded his lungs and he could feel the familiar embrace of death, his quickening lashing out and healing the wound. He spat the blood from his mouth and prayed (begged) for it to end before he lost all sense of his self. 

“So I see,” the Lord nodded. He stepped away, avoiding the gob of blood that now lay on the pristine tile before him. Methos panted and wondered at his new fate. The Lord raised his hands and spoke. “Inanna has blessed us this day. She has given to us her priest to save our city. He will fight in her name and in her name, he will be victorious!” 

Methos couldn’t help the shiver of fear that runs through his body as the crowd that filled the room shouted in relief. They had cast him as their savior. His inability to die (permanently) served as proof of Inanna’s favor and the eventual defeat of Enmerkar. 

He knew differently.

***

They trained him. He felt his body grow more lean, whipcord muscle re-emerging, callouses that even his quickening could not heal (prevent) re-forming. He gripped the handle of the sword and remembered. (He did not like his memories; Yam did not care for what he liked. He was a tool and Yam had a duty to ensure that Hadad [Methos] served his purpose.) Death rode high on his shoulder and his nights were stained with remembered blood.

He could not escape so made no try. He had no visitors besides his guards. No comforts beyond the most basic of necessities. (If he won, would that change?) No word from the Doctor (was he a god?) nor the Lord. He could only wait (train) until he was called while hoping he could figure a way out of dying for a city of which he was quickly becoming less fond.

***

They brought him to the house of Inanna and the priestess gave him her blessing (sex before battle brought with it so many memories he had tried to suppress and a feral grin adorned his face as he left her on the altar). They placed a copper helm on his head, fastened an armored cloak around his shoulders and handed him his sickle-sword. A procession led him through the streets of Aratta and he stood tall in the chariot that drove him to the gates. In the chariot behind him, rode the Lord and the High Priest. Ahead of him, rode the High Priestess and her handmaidens. The roar of Inanna’s people accompanied him as he exited Aratta. He wondered if the Doctor stood somewhere in that crowd. Had he obtained what he wanted? Abandoned Aratta (and Methos?) to its fate? (Even as he readied himself to fight Enmerkar’s champion, he knew he only prolonged the suffering of Aratta. It did not matter what the Lord believed; Enmerkar had set his sights on Aratta and it would fall to his forces, if not now, then later.)

Formalities met, the two Champions met in a clash to metal. His vision narrowed to his present, to his sword in his hand and his opponent before him. Sweat dripped into his eyes, a nuisance to be ignored; nicks and cuts bled freely, blue lightening dancing across his wounds, healing almost before the pain registered. He snarled, animalistic in his fury at all of this, wanting nothing more than to have this mockery of a war over and done. His sickle-sword connected with the axe favored by his opponent, blocking his strike. He jumped away as the axe came towards him; it was enough as Enmerkar’s champion slipped in the blood-dampened dirt. Methos didn’t even think as his body acted as it had in so many similar situations. 

He panted for air as the people of Aratta cheered at his victory, the cooling body before him nothing more than a broken toy. His sickle-sword held at his side, blood dripping from its blade, he waited for what was to come next. His victory should mean Enmerkar would leave Aratta alone; he had no faith that he would. Methos’ victory bought at most a season of peace before the other king would return for the city he believed should be his. 

Methos now knew he survived on limited time. How long before another Immortal heard of the champion of Aratta and his blessed powers? How long until someone came to investigate and tried for his head? Would it be a stranger or someone he once knew?

He shuddered. Damn the Doctor and damn the Lord. He raise his head and beseeched the gods to intervene before he lost his head.

***

“Hello again,” the Doctor greeted, a grin on his face as he leaned against the far wall in Methos’ new quarters. He glanced behind him quickly, sighing with relief as his guards stumbled into their own quarters, more interested in passing out in a drunken stupor than watching their charge.

“Where have you been?” Methos hissed. He stalked towards the other, anger mixing with relief. 

“Oh, you know. Here, there,” the Doctor waved off the question. “But that’s not important. Have you found her?”

“Not important?” Methos asked. 

“The TARDIS, have you found her?” the Doctor asked again, ignoring the killing intent projected at him. Methos growled and Death came perilously close to breaking free. Only the fierce hold with which Methos tended to grip that personality to prevent it from emerging kept it from doing so. Still, it was a struggle, especially with all that he had experienced these last few weeks. 

“Do you know what has happened to me?” he hissed, his face close to the Doctor’s and focusing his displeasure straight at him. It slid off the other as if nothing. 

“You’ve handled it admirably,” the Doctor assured him. “Now. If you’ve seen my TARDIS, I can help you get out of here.”

“Handled it…,” Methos shook his head before the rest of the Doctor’s statement filtered through his consciousness. “Wait… what?” 

A soft expression - unreadable - crossed the Doctor’s face before he leveraged off the wall and pushed past Methos. “You’re stronger than you think you are,” he said. “Now, come on!” He rubbed his hands in a gleeful manner. “We should get going, if we’re going to get out of here.”

Methos gaped, not sure if he actually understood anything the other wanted from him. Not sure if he could trust him. He had, after all, caused his current predicament. If he followed him… if he _believed_ what he claimed… “Why should I trust you?” he asked. 

The Doctor paused. Turned his head over his shoulder and gave him another one of his unfathomable looks. “Why not?”

He growled; why not indeed? Why trust the being before him, whose very actions led to his current predicament? And yet… there was something about him, something that told him he _could_ trust. That if he didn’t follow him to - dare he hope, freedom? - he would regret it. Methos trusted his instincts - they had saved him more than once and it was that, in the end, that tipped the balance. “Fine,” he bit out. “Let’s go, before someone tries to find me for ‘training.’”

It was only a matter of moments for him to grab the satchel of essentials, things he had no desire to leave behind, and follow the Doctor out of his quarters. It was but mere child’s play for the two of them to sneak through the various streets of Aratta. Methos led him to the temple. 

“It’s in here. In one of the anterooms.”

The Doctor grinned brilliantly at him and surged forward. “Let’s go then!”

“Quiet!” Methos hissed. “You’re going to get us caught.” While the streets might be empty, save for the odd patrol, the temple bustled with people at all times of the day. Temple guards ensured the priests and priestesses could perform their duties without harm; worshippers came to offer their gifts to Inanna and ask for her favor, more so now that they are at war (not-war). Even more, the Doctor’s box was of great interest to Inanna’s clergy and they studied it (tried to) at all hours. “We must hurry, before someone asks why we are here.”

Urgency — the sense that if they didn’t move _right now_ they would be caught surged through him and he guided the Doctor through the hidden passages that riddled the temple. The Doctor, for once, seemed content to allow him the lead and he skillfully led him to the anteroom he saw so long ago (mere weeks, but how different he felt!). 

It was guarded.

He knew it would be and he drew his sword, prepared to defend, prepared to fight (to kill) for his freedom. 

“Oi! What’s that for?” the Doctor asked and pulled against his arm. 

Methos barely refrained from backhanding the other. Reflexes honed by centuries of fighting warred with his knowledge that the Doctor was an ally (for now). “Don’t do that!” he growled. 

The Doctor did not look impressed. “No killing,” he warned. “You won’t need that.”

“And what am I to do when the guards attack us? Beg them not to hurt us?”

“You won’t need to do anything. Let’s go.”

Methos kept his sword ready, not willing to trust the Doctor’s assurance that they would be safe whilst knowing that they had to hurry if they wanted to reach the Doctor’s box before his absence was noted. 

The Doctor snorted and shook his head but did not argue any further. 

They made their way through the almost silent halls of the temple; each sound seemed amplified, seemingly holding more import than any before it. Methos strained his senses, not wanting to be caught off guard, not wanting to find himself chained to fight for Aratta and Inanna until someone got lucky and chopped off his head, ending his existence.

He only prayed that the Doctor’s assurance of freedom from this city would prove true.

***

No one guarded the box. It sat, alone in solitary splendor, with not even an offering beside it. Methos could scarcely believe his luck, but perhaps Inanna smiled on them. He had fought for her honor — was this her way of thanking him?

“Come along,” the Doctor said and opened the blue door. Methos hesitated a moment, feeling the strange warmth tingling through him once again. It didn’t feel bad, per se, just… odd. 

“What are you waiting for?” the Doctor asked. “Let’s go!”

He hesitated. What did he really know about the other? His mind said he couldn’t trust him, that the only person he could trust was himself. Who could say whether following him would bring him the freedom he sought? What if, in entering this box, he found himself in a worse position?

And yet. His heart nearly ached with an emotion he couldn’t identify, telling him that the Doctor would keep his word and take him away from Aratta and this damned war. That getting into this box would open his mind in ways he had never contemplated. 

He stepped inside.

***

Later, after Rose and Jack had gone to bed, Methos sat in quiet contemplation, a bottle of beer loosely held in his hand. He wasn’t quite ready for sleep, not after revisiting his memories of Aratta. He had enjoyed living there, at least until the end, but it was that — his exit from the city — that always brought to mind that Death remained forever a part of him. He might hide it away, but it would always come out in the end.

“You were uncommonly tactful,” the Doctor said. “No mention of the tortures you suffered.” 

Methos met his gaze as calmly as he could. He detected a bit of sorrow in the Doctor’s visage. Guilt, he supposed, for involving him. He shrugged. “I will not be the one to rip the blinders from their eyes. Let the two of them keep their naivety a bit longer.”

“Both of them?”

He snickered. “Your boy is but a child and you know it.”

The Doctor nodded. “He doesn’t think he is.”

“Why would he? Arrogant twats, those Time Agents. He especially,” Methos said and then cursed quietly. “Forget I said that.”

“You know him?” the Doctor asked.

“Spoilers.” His past, Jack’s future.

For once, the Doctor did not argue with him. “Did I ever apologize for what I did?” he asked instead.

Methos raised an eyebrow. “Apologize? For what?”

“Ruining your life in Aratta.”

It struck the Immortal at that moment that the Doctor rarely acknowledged the mayhem that followed him and that often caused trouble or, occasionally, ruined the lives of those with whom he interacted. Oh, the Doctor scarcely _meant_ to initiate the chaos that tended to surround him, but nonetheless, it often did. And he blithely went on his way whenever the mess into which he had fallen had cleared up and thought nothing of it.

This was an aspect of the Doctor Methos knew, acknowledged and had come to accept. Still, now that the Doctor had brought up his tendencies, he could not let it slide. “It was millenia ago for me,” he said. “You were able to get me out of there in the end and brought me to safety, so I did not truly suffer.”

“Be that as it may, I did force you to leave before you were ready and you cannot tell me differently.”

“Perhaps,” Methos acknowledged. “I scarcely remember. Though… you’ve never told me why you were there in the first place.” He smiled at the Doctor’s sheepish look. 

“Ah, right,” he said. “Had some things to sort out.”

“I suppose it was fortuitous that you recognized me and came to my rescue,” Methos offered. 

“You’d have rescued yourself even if I did make it easier for you,” the Doctor insisted. He hesitated a moment before continuing. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m quite well,” Methos said, deliberately misinterpreting the Doctor’s real question, except that the other just stared at him until he sighed. “Fine. It hurts. My brothers are dead and I’m still alive and it bloody fucking hurts.”

“You did not deserve any of this,” the Doctor said. 

“Cassandra would disagree.”

The Doctor nodded in acknowledgment and ventured closer to his friend. “She doesn’t know you.”

“She thinks she does,” Methos said. “I don’t believe I’ll ever be able to convince her differently.”

“Do you really want to?” the Doctor asked. 

Methos took a sip of his beer and slowly rolled the label off the sweating bottle. “Once,” he began, speaking slowly, “not that long ago even. A couple of weeks ago, when I thought that maybe, just maybe, I could salvage whatever it was I had in Seacouver.” He crumpled the label in his hand. “I thought she’d see, you know. That I was different because Mac wouldn’t be friends with anyone who wasn’t good. And she knows that. Bloody boy scout. Instead, she turned him against me and I just hoped and hoped that I’d be able to contain the whole fucking mess.” 

“You did a good job.”

“Did I? My brothers are dead, Cassandra _wants_ me dead, my friends think I’m a monster. And all I want is my brothers back. Sane and there. It’s ironic. I spent so many years, running from my past when I should have just embraced it.”

“Become Death again? You once swore you never would.”

“Death never leaves me,” Methos said. “I came so close. In Aratta. Elsewhere. Death almost… he has almost broken free innumerable times. And I think I would have welcomed it.”

The Doctor sighed. “At least you realize it.”

Another moment of quiet passed between the two of them before the Doctor broke it. “You’ll travel with me for a bit, yeah?”

“I’ve no place else to be,” Methos agreed in his oblique manner. 

“Good,” the Doctor said. “We’ll see where the TARDIS sends us in the morning.” He stood and moved to clasp Methos’ shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here.” 

“Me too,” Methos said and gave him a small smile. 

It was almost enough to reassure the Doctor. And as he left the other to his thoughts, his mind remembered an earlier life. One where a man - stubborn and pushy and oh, so noble! - jumped into a roiling river to rescue a small boy. Where a woman - defiant and strong and equally stubborn - cuddled the child in her arms and a teenage girl hovered over both, offering blankets and hot tea. Where a connection was forged even if none but he and the TARDIS remembered. 

One day, he’d have to remember to tell Methos about the cute little boy he’d once been.

_/fin_


End file.
